


Bring Me Some Water

by Kleenexwoman



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Butch/Femme, F/F, First Kiss, Genderswap, I made up a song for this, I miss New York, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lana wants to kiss Gaby and Gaby isn't being very straightforward about the whole thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Me Some Water

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there is a Melissa Etheridge song called "Bring Me Some Water," and I thought that this story was going to go that way but it turned out that it didn't, so I wrote another song for it because goddamn I just can't let go of a title once I finally decide on one.

They're in the tropical climate of San Veronica for almost two months, and when they get back to New York the air has a tang of spring to it. If they'd spent most of the punishing winter in the city it would have been balmy. As it is, it still feels sullenly clammy to Lana. Gaby wants to go for a walk in Central Park, but she doesn't want to go alone. Lana wants to go back to her little apartment in Hamilton Heights and make herself a pot of tea, and sit in front of her radiator all wrapped up in a big blanket. She'll tune in to the jazz program, set up her chessboard, and relax. But she also wants very much to take a walk with Gaby, and so she wraps herself up and goes. 

They tromp along the muddy paths, and Lana can't quite see her breath in the air. She's conscious of her heavy boots, the black jeans that were her big purchase for the week two months ago, the white men's shirt that has yellow stains under the armpits after three weeks spent in an unpleasantly torrid prison, her peacoat from the Russian Naval Forces (all medals and insignia carefully packed away in a box), the shapeless furry hat she inherited from her grandmother. She's a hodgepodge. 

Gaby is a little more daring, wrapped up in a bright green coat and matching green boots--she's becoming very fashionable. Lana thinks about that first meeting in the boutique, when she'd poured herself into that Dior that showed off her hips, jammed her feet into heels, and painted her lips red. She'd wanted to look good for the German girl and the American--as a representative of her country, of course. She'd even grown her hair out for this. The American woman had laughed, and Lana had nearly punched her in the face again. 

"I am thinking, I will cut my hair," Lana says to Gaby. 

"You would look good," Gaby says, a little indifferently. 

That first conversation is still running through her mind. "I will be famous Russian architect," Lana Kuryakina had said back then. "And you are my assistant." 

"That sounds all right," Gabrielle Teller had said. 

"And secret lover. Very obvious secret." 

That's when Gaby had thrown down the ring and stormed out. Lana had stood there clutching her purse. 

"Not very good at the whole subtlety thing," the American woman had said, and Lana had once again wanted to plant a fist in that smirking face. "One more thing to add to your truly incredible list of blackmail material, although I don't know how anyone missed it. Unless there aren't many girls like us behind the Iron Curtain." 

"I don't see how I'm much like you," Lana had said. 

The American woman had smirked. "Please. Secret lover?" 

"It was your idea." 

"And you volunteered." 

"I do not trust you with her." 

"So you do know what I'm talking about!" The American woman had clapped her hands sarcastically. "You are an awful liar, Peril." She'd leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the side of Lana's mouth. "Well, better go get your secret lover." Lana had stood very still for a moment, watching Josephine Solo leave, not wanting to punch her at all. 

Yes, Lana can certainly see her breath in the cold New York air now. She watches it drift, obscuring the skyscrapers that rise above the trees only to disappear into the low clouds. Sometimes she misses her grandmother's old apartment building in Kiev, the worker's clubs the old woman had taken her to before her mother had put a stop to it. They were concrete blocks, hard and featureless but still graceful in their own way. They were unashamed of their own lack of ornamentation, their very form celebrating the raw materials for what they were. Josephine Solo, she thinks, has to be like the Art Deco skyscrapers that fill New York. Hard-edged and clean, a celebration of power, but still graceful and ornate in their own way. 

She wonders what kind of building Gaby is, but nothing presents itself for comparison. Not all analogies are perfect, after all. 

"So," Lana says now. "You know what I am." 

"Cold?" Gaby asks. 

"Am I?" Lana replies. 

"I ought to warm you up, then." Gaby slips one arm around her. Those damned sunglasses. Lana can't look at her eyes. 

"Do you think I'm cold?" Lana asks again. She had been so reticent with Gaby after that, so careful. Gabrielle hadn't been particularly careful at all, dancing around in her pajamas while Lana sat glowering in her baggiest turtleneck sweater and trying hard to concentrate on the sexless black and white of the chess board. She remembered the sting of Ms. Teller's open palm against her face, those small soft hands all over her when Gaby bowled her over and tried to hold her down. Gaby puts her head on Lana's shoulder, and Lana remembers how warm and fragile she'd seemed in her arms when she'd dropped off to sleep. 

"Sometimes," Gaby says. "But I don't think you mean to be." 

"Sometimes I do," Lana says. 

"Mm. I'm cold." 

"You should have worn a thicker coat." 

"No. Put your arm around me." 

"I'll buy you a hot chocolate." 

"I'll spill it on my coat." 

"You shouldn't have worn a white coat." 

"I don't want hot chocolate." Gaby moves away from Lana. "I don't want you to buy me hot chocolate." 

"I won't, then." 

"Fine." Gaby crosses her arms. 

Lana gets the feeling that she has won some kind of Pyrrhic victory in an argument that she didn't even know they were having. "What about coffee?" 

Gaby turns her big white sunglasses in Lana's direction. Lana swears that the girl uses them as some kind of armor. "Where do you want to have coffee?" 

There is a Turkish cafe Lana is coming to love in Brighton Beach, a cozy place full of low couches and herbal smells. She thinks longingly of curling up there with a plate of baklava and a volume of Wislawa Szymborska's poetry by her side. "I know a place, but we can go wherever you want." 

"I think," Gaby says, "I think..." She puts her index finger on her chin in a parody of thought. "We should get some coffee, and we should get some of those big black and white cookies, and we should go back to your place." 

Lana plucks a dead leaf from a bush and absently shreds it in her fingers. It is a nervous reaction worthy of a schoolgirl, but she has never known what to do with her hands when she feels this nervous, this giddy. Anger is easier, fists flying against anything that stands in her way. This--she cannot destroy anything to give her surcease from this feeling. "I'll get the coffee if you get the cookies." 

Her apartment is small, no central heating. It will be stifling in the summer. But the radiator makes the old wood floors smell comforting and earthy, and Lana loves it for that. She turns the radiator on and starts to prepare the coffee. Inside her apartment, the cold is easier to come to terms with, the air still and quiet. Gaby perches on the low, cushy couch Lana brought back from Istanbul and wraps herself in one of the blankets that Lana leaves in piles all over the apartment. Lana can hear the soft hissing of the radiator, the sound of Gaby rummaging through the white paper bag of treats--they'd also gotten some strawberry rugelach, spiced meat pies, and a gigantic brownie with brightly colored chocolate candies sprinkled on top. Lana hadn't been able to resist the Jewish treats, Gaby hadn't been able to resist the sprinkles. 

The water boils slowly. Lana leans on the counter, enjoying the radiant heat from the pot without wanting to draw much nearer. In the other room--Lana has come to think of it as the parlor, even though it barely merits the name--Gaby has tired of rummaging through the sweets and is leaning forward, flipping through Lana's record collection. "You've got a lot of records already," she says, raising her voice slightly to be heard through the door. "Are they all blues?" 

"Some jazz, too. But I like blues best." Bessie Thornton, Gladys Bently, Ma Rainey. Alberta Hunter. More recently, Sasha Fierce, an underground singing sensation. Lana goes to fish out her Sasha Fierce album, "The Nine Lives of Sasha Fierce." The cover shows Sasha in a long black lace dress, one arm bare, the other covered with a full-length black satin glove as it always is. Her hair springs out behind her like a golden-brown cloud. "This is the newest. I went to see her just a few nights before we left for San Veronica." 

"I didn't know!" Gaby studies the album cover with glee. "She's gorgeous. Why didn't you ask me to come with you?" 

"I didn't know you liked that kind of music." Lana had gone to see Sasha Fierce in a dyke bar in Harlem, a little place hidden in between a liquor store and a shop that advertised real African incense and conjure oil. She hadn't been the only white woman in the place, but she'd been the only one who hadn't been on the arm of a black woman. Nobody had said anything, but she'd hidden at a table far off on the side of the bar anyway, pulling her pageboy hat over her eyes and nursing a single beer while she watched Sasha sing. There had been women in there with short hair, not curled and straightened but simply shorn like a man; there had been women in tuxedos, proud as peacocks, and women in overalls and rough boots like hers who had clearly just gotten off their shifts at some factory. She had sensed a few questioning eyes on her, but they hadn't stayed. 

"I like all kinds of music." Gaby sheds her blanket cocoon and kneels in front of the record player. The radiator has warmed the small room thoroughly, and the water is boiling. Lana goes to pour the coffee while Gaby places the record on the turntable. The smooth wail of the saxophone fills the apartment for a few bars, and Lana comes back in just as Sasha starts to sing. 

_Bring me some water, baby  
Before my throat runs dry   
Bring me some water, baby   
Before I curl up and die   
Bring me some water, baby   
Unless you're out messing 'round with some guy   
Oh, with some other guy_

"Coffee." Lana hands a cup to Gaby, hot and black. Her own coffee is more milk than anything. American stores very rarely run out of milk; even the little corner stores that New Yorkers seem to be forced to shop at don't ration it out. Lana has never liked the jittery, shriveled feeling that coffee gives her. It only makes her more short-tempered than unusual, unable to think. But the taste is nice when you put enough milk in it. She takes a rugelach and sits cross-legged on the couch. 

_If you don't have a bucket, baby  
I'll drink that water from your wooden cup   
If you don't have no wood cup, baby   
I'll drink from your pretty hands, drink it up   
If you won't touch me with those pretty hands, baby   
I'll drink that water right from your soft lips_

Gaby covers her mouth with her hand, and her eyes widen. "Lana! This is dirty!" 

"It's not! It's just music," Lana protests. Gaby giggles, and Lana rolls her eyes. "You think it's funny, but if either of us had been caught listening to this--" 

"Please. Berlin loves this sort of thing, even behind the wall. Sometimes little old ladies would come in with their fancy cars and sit and tell me stories about the cabarets they used to go to back in the day, trying to scandalize me. It was very informative." Gaby leans back against the couch and sips at her coffee. 

_If you don't have no water baby  
Then give me your sweet breast   
Let your milk run right over my chin _

Gaby rests her head on the side of Lana's thigh. Lana's finger is only a few inches from the exposed nape of Gaby's neck. Lana closes her eyes and enjoys the sensation of warmth, of closeness. There's a question in the way she crooks her finger, one she doesn't think Gaby is likely to answer to tonight. If at all. Gaby is impressively good at not having to answer questions, not dodging them the way that Solo does, but stolidly ignoring them. 

It's a little unfair, Lana thinks, because Gaby knows that Lana will never ask. Maybe it's true about what Berlin is like, or maybe Gaby just has always had a little less to lose than Lana does. 

_And if your milk has all run out, girl  
Just open up your legs   
And I'll drink the juice from between your thighs_

Gaby's shoulders seem hunched up, tense. Lana wonders if she's nervous, and that familiar knot begins to form in her stomach. She chastises herself for being so presumptuous, for reading far too much into Gaby's actions. Sometimes she forgets that touch between women can be entirely innocent, unfreighted with desire and untouched by the fear of discovery. Young women like Gaby are so casual in the way they touch each other. Lana draws her hand back, determined not to ruin this evening. 

_And if those legs won't open  
You can drink my salty tears   
Because I'm gonna sit right down and cry   
Oh, gonna sit down and cry_

Gaby gets up abruptly, and Lana sinks back into the couch, a little relieved. She watches as Gaby starts to do the Twist, her face serious and distant. Gaby catches her eye and grins. She starts to swing her hips and snap her fingers with abandon, shaking her head back and forth. She looks like one of the young dancers on "American Bandstand," and Lana has to smile. 

_Bring me some water, baby  
Before my love runs dry   
Bring me some water, baby   
Before I curl up and die   
Bring me some water baby   
Show me I'm your one and only   
Until the day you die   
Oh, until the day we both die_

"Dance with me," Gaby says, and this time Lana does. She kicks aside the blankets and tries to mirror Gaby's movements, even going up on her tiptoes when Gaby does. 

"I hated ballet," Gaby says. 

"I loved it," Lana says. "But I was too big to be a dancer. Waste of time." 

"It wasn't a waste of time if you liked it," Gaby says. 

The song segues into a slower, sadder song. _Why don't you love me,_ Sasha sings, _when I make me so damn easy to love?_

Gaby slows down, and Lana does too, swaying to the langorous beat. Most of Sasha's songs are full of rejected love, and Lana wonders if even someone as beautiful as Sasha Fierce truly has trouble finding a friend. Wouldn't the clubs she sings at be full of women who wanted her? Did nobody dare? Or was she on the road too much, sleeping in a different bed night after night, the other pillow cold and empty before morning? 

"We can't dance to this alone," Gaby says. She slides her slim arms over Lana's shoulders. "Unless you'd rather wrestle." 

"Apartment is too small." 

"Then put your arms around me." 

Lana's fingertips barely brush Gaby's hips. This must be it, she thinks, but she still can't bring herself to make a move. What if it's a trap? What if Gaby will spring back and accuse her, laugh and say she knew it all along? 

"I keep wanting to ask you," Lana says, "but you don't like to answer questions." 

"You don't like to ask them much." Gaby smiles. Her eyes flick down, demure. 

"You don't seem to like me to ask them." 

"Maybe I think some questions don't need to be asked." 

"Then I won't ask them." 

They sway. The song ends. Lana can feel Gaby's warm breath on her throat. 

"I wish you'd ask me," Gaby says, so low that Lana almost can't hear. 

"You know what I am," Lana says, almost as low. 

"That's not a question." 

"Isn't it?" 

Gaby looks directly into Lana's eyes and presses her body against Lana's. She's warm and slim, more solid than Lana imagined, and Lana desperately wants to shuck her sweat-stained shirt off and feel Gaby's skin on hers. "Are you going to kiss me tonight or not?" 

Lana opens her mouth, and her voice is stuck somewhere between her throat and her stomach. Gaby lunges forward and kisses her. 

Her lips are more delicate than Lana had expected, more rose petal than ripe plum. They're soft and slightly tacky with the remnants of delicate pink lipstick. Her tongue is soft too, teasing Lana's lips apart with a sureness that makes Lana's knees go just a little weak. 

It's easy to kiss her back, sure and strong, to take Gaby's lip in between Lana's teeth and bite down just a little before pulling slowly away. Gaby looks startled, touching her lip with what might be awe in her eyes. 

"I didn't think you were actually going to do that," she says. 

"I do not play games," Lana says. 

"You play chess." 

"Chess is not game. It is war." 

"War is a game, too." 

"This is not." Lana takes Gaby's hands in hers. Gaby's hands are so small, but they're strong and a little rough from working with metal. Lana likes women with rough hands, and she hopes Gaby does too. "I am not a game." 

Gaby looks her in the eye again, setting her jaw. Like she's taking a dare. Then she leans over and kisses Lana again, soft and sure, mouth open and wet. 

"I don't want to go to bed tonight," Gaby says. "But soon, I think. Is--is that all right?" 

Lana slides her hands around Gaby's waist. She thinks she might be trembling just a little, thinking of "soon." The curve of Gaby's hips is a promise. "Until then, we dance." 

And they do, until the record flips over, and over, and over, and spring finally comes.


End file.
